A mile in his shoes
by Outakurebecca
Summary: They couldn't swap the clothes they already had because they wouldn't have fit right. John's chest was broader, more muscled, and Sherlock was taller. Annoyingly so.
1. Chapter 1

((This is a fill for the Sherlock kink meme on livejournal. It's called 'John and Sherlock swap clothing styles for a case and it turns both of them on'. How could I resist filling such a gem of a prompt? The full prompt is at the end of the chapter in bold. Author notes are in double parenthesis.))

20:23, John read on his watch. They were going much too slowly to get where they needed to be to investigate this case. There was still another shop they had to visit before they could even travel in the right direction. Why couldn't formal attire and jumpers be sold in the same location? John thought they went rather well together.

The creak of a changing stall could be heard from the dressing room at the back of the store. John turned in his folding chair to see Sherlock emerge, sporting an uncharacteristic emsomble of jeans, patterned button-down, and sweater vest. His serious face didn't match what he was wearing at all.

"Convincing?" Sherlock asked, giving a quarter turn in each direction so John could see.

John tried to articulate something about how ridiculous he looked, but was a little caught up in how familiar the whole outfit was, almost straight from his own closet. He imagined Sherlock in various states of undress rummaging through the hangers in his closet, settling on the jumper that smelled the most like John to wear.

"Your collar's a little wonky," John managed. He got to his feet and righted it, his fingers lingering to brush the skin of Sherlock's neck. He stepped back quickly before he did anything else on a whim.

"But will it work, John?" Sherlock huffed. "This is for the case, it needs to be up to disguise specifications, and you are unarguably the expert on the appearance that is required of me."

John studied him for a moment. And maybe an extra moment to fully appreciate how even in a lumped knit material, Sherlock was sleek and confident, a hint of muscle visible in the shape of his clothing.

"Try the last jumper with this shirt," John decided. "And be quick about it, I'm suppose to pick up my alterations in twenty minutes."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. He probably figured he could deduce his way out of the normal flow of time if he wanted to. The git.

Only when he had redone the latch on the dressing room door did Sherlock allow the heat to creep into his face. Whether conscious of it or not, John had chose The Jumper. Of the four Sherlock had tried on, The Jumper reminded his the most of John. And not in a platonic way.

He assessed himself in the mirror, fingering the hem of the sweater vest where it met the top of his jeans. For a blink of an eye, he imagined that it was John in the mirror, but still his own fibers on the fabric. What would it be like to pull the material over John's head? To continue to stand behind him as he undid the buttons on his shirt?

Sherlock quickly discarded the sweater vest and picked up The Jumper. It was scratchy, but pleasant in texture. It was still partially warm from wearing it minutes ago for John to inspect. If only John's heat had been the real cause of it. He pulled his arms through the sleeves and continued to pretend. Holding John's arm when they sat next to each other on the couch in the flat. Giving John a good morning embrace. The scratch of the fabric against his cheek as it rested on John's shoulder.

Sherlock poked his head out and adjusted his collar in the mirror. His reflection was the only one that stared back.

Sherlock wore his purchases out of the store, he wouldn't have time to change into them again later, but he still had on his long coat and scarf over them, so there wasn't much of a change at all. To the unobservant, that it. And John was edging out of that Venn circle more everyday. He saw the faint tinge of red on his neck from the heat of the combined layers of knit and coat, the mused nature o his hair from the trial of many jumpers, and the tell-tale jean material slouched over his posh shoes (the only visible article he'd kept from his original outfit, and even they were his old scuffed pair).

The formal shop came into view at 20:46. Not enough time at all, but it was what they had. The synthetic bell noise signaled their entry and a thin girl in employee's garb rushed up to them with a plastic bag on a hanger.

"J. Watson! We were starting to worry. Here's your order. You pre-payed, so you're set to go!" she completed the speech seemingly in one breath, smiled the whole time with professionally-applied lips.

"Great," John took the garment bag thankfully. "Do you have a changing room, by any chance?"

"To the left, second door," Sherlock answered for her. "You'd best avoid the first because this girl's lover is awaiting her return in it."

"I- I didn't say-" the girl stammered.

"If you are planning on reapplying your lipstick and make-up that often, I'd recommend a calmer pallet," Sherlock suggested.

"Don't mind him," John averted her attention. They did not have time for that rubbish. "Could you show me the way, anyhow?" Anything to increase the distance between her and Sherlock's chase-prepped mind.

She showed him the way wordlessly, although John far outpaced her in his hurry. He was within the dressing room in no time. The hanger found a hook and he proceeded in unzipping the garment bag.

The zip sound reminded him of Sherlock's steady fingers on a bag a the morgue. For a horrible moment, John had a premonition that it was Sherlock in a body bag. He shook the thought from his head and got to the task at hand.

This shop had a reputation for turning out the perfect fit every time. And for good reason, John's suit fit so well it could rival Sherlock in appeal. John fastened his tie in the mirror and took in his appearance. It was much too much for the role he would need to play for the case. He tugged the tie loose again with two fingers. John let himself smirk a bit, wondering if Sherlock would be turned on by something so overused as the removal of a tie. Sherlock himself never bothered with them, the ties, so it was hard to know.

John decided the vest had to go as well. ((Wow, author is sad at the treatment of vests. Completely unintentional.)) His dress shirt was immaculate and freshly ironed, but John couldn't help but prefer the tight stretch of a certain purple shirt that never went a week without being worn around the flat. He replaced the suit jacket and put on his most posh, high-chinned expression as he buttoned it again. His Sherlock impression didn't last long before he started snickering.

A glance at his watch shot him out the door, snatching a handful of the provided cuff links on the way out. It felt like an even number; he'd put them on in the cab.

Sherlock was waiting none-too-patently. The cab idled outside. John felt probing eyes on him the moment he stepped into Sherlock's view. He could feel the deductions being pulled from him as if Sherlock were removing the clothing itself, piece by piece.

"You clean up nicely," was all he said.

"And you dress down nicely, I suppose?" John returned.

Sherlock smirked with the faintest hint of teeth. "I suppose."

((Thanks for reading this far! Here's the full prompt.))

**No established relationship.**

**John and Sherlock go undercover for a case, but for whatever reason the roles they have to play require them to each dress completely opposite of how they normally dress. **

**By that I mean John gets decked out in a stylish suit and shirt like Sherlock and Sherlock wears jeans and a casual shirt and jumper just like one of John's (not necessarily swapping their own clothes because they wouldn't fit properly, but buying new clothes for the case).**

**The process of dressing like the other secretly turns them both on. While getting dressed they are thinking about each other, touching the clothing reverently the way they've always longed to, touching themselves in the clothing and imagining they are touching the other person, putting an item of clothing on and then stripping it back off to pretend they are stripping it off the other person, et cetera. And during the case they just get more worked up, watching each other in the clothing, pretending the other is their lover wearing their borrowed clothes, and also being hyperaware of how the clothes they are wearing themselves feel on them when they move.**

**And if that could all wind up with some hot sexy times when the case is over then that would be REALLY great.**

((Don't worry. It will.))


	2. Chapter 2

"What's my name again?"

"Henry Farthing, do try to keep up," said Sherlock. He adjusted his hat (which was _not_ a deer stalker, thank you very much) in the reflection on the window looking out of the sleek black vehicle.

"Got it, _Horatio Shelton_," John returned from the driver's seat. "Why did you get to choose? I'm perfectly capable of picking my own name."

Sherlock sighed. "You would have picked 'James Bond' or something equally transparent."

John gave him the eye through the rear view mirror. "Excuse me? You weren't creative enough to even change your initials."

"I switched the order," Sherlock protested.

John scoffed. "You couldn't resist a posh name like 'Horatio' either."

"Shut up, Mr. Farthing, if you please," Sherlock cut him off. He had already slipped into his faux accent. "Our suspect is here." He gave a final tug to the hat hiding his signature dark curls and stepped out before John had brought the car to a complete stop.

"Odessa!" Sherlock warmly greeted a proper-looking lady on the corner. She was wrapped in an expensive fur shawl that was out of place with her short pencil skirt.

"Horatio, do try to be subtle!" she scolded, glancing apprehensively at people passing on either side. The streets had cleared enough after dark for anything spoken to be easily overheard.

"Oh but I've been _dying_ to see you," Sherlock's voice dripped with dishonesty in John's ears, to the point where he had to turn away to hide his amusement, but to anyone else his charade was perfect.

Odessa rolled her eyes and slid into the car when Sherlock opened the door for her. "Hello, driver," she said blandly. Apparently John's cover name didn't matter much after all.

Sherlock got in on the other side and John pulled back into traffic.

"Let's get right to it, then," Odessa removed her gloves and tucked them into her purse. "Do you have it?"

"On to business so soon?" Sherlock pouted.

"I must insist," Odessa said firmly. "I haven't much time to spare."

"Of course, of course," Sherlock produced an envelope from a compartment concealed in the seat between them. Odessa snatched it and gingerly broke the seal to check its contents.

"Is everything in order?" Sherlock asked, eyebrow raised.

"Yes, quite." She appeared dissatisfied despite her words.

"And your end of the deal?" Sherlock prompted. "As long as we're strictly on business."

"Of course," Odessa sat back in her seat, all her worry leaving her. "I assume your driver is already taking us there."

John had a moment of panic. He thought that he was only meant to drive around aimlessly until Sherlock had gotten his information.

"Yes, yes," Sherlock waved a hand at nothing, the action drawing the suspect's attention away from John. "He's been to Harper Street countless times."

Odessa was clearly impressed. "So you are part if the order."

"I'm offended that you haven't noticed me before," Sherlock replied lightheartedly.

"I do apologize, but you must understand what little trust I put in those I have only met through correspondence."

"A precaution we all must take," Sherlock agreed.

It didn't take long for John to navigate his way to the order's base. Lestrade's men were already there waiting for them.

"What's this?!" Odessa asked in a shrill tone. The blue flashing of police lights did not suit her at all.

"I would say that I'm terribly sorry, but I've done enough lying for one evening," Sherlock said, dropping his accent. "You really shouldn't put such trust in people you meet on the Internet, Miss Odessa Worthington. Also, your application process for hired help is quite lacking, the servant girl you hired-"

"She betrayed me?!" Odessa shrieked.

"Oh no, you betrayed yourself. I was merely suggesting that you could find a much better launder if you didn't require them to have the same shoe size as yourself."

"I don't understand."

"You wouldn't. Ta," he waved apathetically as Lestrade hand cuffed her and led her to a police car.

Sherlock explained on their way to return the car.

"She thought she was being clever," he said from the passenger seat. His hat was abandoned in the back along with his disguise personality. "On nights that she went to the order, a presumptuous name for a first tier drug ring, she wore her maid's shoes. She thought it was the only characteristic that could be gained from the evidence she left on Harper Street."

"We didn't know the trade was on Harper Street," John pointed out.

"We didn't, until she appeared before us tonight in that hideous fur. The dust on it was a distinctive color, a tan that is only found in that area of London. Also, there was a patch that was damaged on her right shoulder and upper back from turning in a confined space. The space could only be a narrow ally between the shoe shop and library on Harper Street. It is constructed of tan brick and covered from the rain and therefore prone to be dusty."

"And when you said that, she assumed you were part of the drug ring because you knew where their base of operations was," John nodded in understanding.

"Precisely," Sherlock continued. "Her acceptance of the envelope of product was incriminating enough as to her connection with the ring, especially as a supplier and not a consumer."

"But she looked disappointed in it."

"Yes," Sherlock grinned. "The amount was lacking, by her standards, but she didn't complain because she was on her way to making an even bigger deal once she was done with us."

"Have you told Lestrade?" John questioned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It was all in the text."

"And what was the deal?" John asked, keeping his eyes on the road.

"It was all in the gloves," said Sherlock. "They hadn't been worn in and wouldn't have fit if they were. The receipt was in her purse."

"So...?" John glanced over at him when the light was red.

"She was planning on returning them, John, I thought it would be obvious."

"Gloves, Sherlock?" John was incredulous. "The woman runs a drug ring and she is more interested in gloves?"

"They were expensive gloves, John," he said. "Not hers, sister's maybe? Left behind, a mix up in the laundry is possible, worth nearly ten thousand pounds."

John's eyebrows shot up. "Ten thousand?"

"I'm as shocked as you are, they were quite hideous-"

"Blimey, ten thousand-"

"The shop that sold them closes in less than half an hour, which explains her hurry."

"There's one more thing I don't understand-"

"I doubt it's just one, John."

"Shut up," said John. Then, "Why the jumper?"

Sherlock stiffened. "I needed her to trust me."

"And people trust people in jumpers?"

"People trust you."

John didn't know what to do with that statement.

**((I'm not a fan of PWP, and now that the plot's over with... -author's note))**


	3. Chapter 3

((If smut isn't what you're here for, turn back now.))

There wasn't much wind on the streets. It was uncharacteristically warm out as well. Sherlock's jacket was thrown over one arm, his blue scarf peaking out of the most visible pocket.

The car had been returned and it wasn't a long walk back to the flat, so they had forgone calling a cab. It was much too pleasant of an opportunity to pass up. The walk was nearly empty by this time of night, but the space between them was the same as if they were passing through a hopelessly elbowing crowd.

The case had been solved, the tedious wrap up put on hold and nearly forgotten. The only evidence of it was the foreign clothing on their bodies and adrenaline in their veins, although there hadn't been much action or peril in this case compared to their more thrilling adventures. It was still a case, however, and it had been challenging enough to be a tolerable escape from boredom.

There were... unique aspects of it that had peaked Sherlock's interest. Disguises had become imperative from the get go, a talent that Sherlock wished he could use more often.

It had been a ridiculous amount of time since he had worn jeans. They shifted differently than his normal attire as he walked. He hadn't tucked his undershirt into them either. That affected how the shirt slid instead of twisted around his middle with the turn of his hips that made up each stride. Was this what it was like to be John Watson?

"You're not still thinking of the case, are you?" John asked by his side.

Far from it, John, Sherlock wanted to say. Instead, he answered with the safer, "Looking forward to some tea, actually."

John smirked, probably thinking how unlike him the statement was. "We only have the caffeinated stuff left, mind."

"We've already skipped the past thirty-plus hours of sleep," Sherlock reminded him. "What difference would a couple more make?"

The door to 221B came into sight. "I'm surprisingly okay with that," John realized. A thought came to him as he took out his keys. "Especially if it means I get to make use of this a bit longer." He gestured at his suit.

"Indeed," Sherlock agreed. They entered and climbed up to the flat. Evidence of the case-marathon were scattered about, mostly in the form of John's take-out and Sherlock's nicotine patches. It had only taken a few singles to piece this one together. As far as highs went, this case qualified as a faint buzz at best. So why was he so wired from it?

"I'll get the tea, I'm much more coherent than you at this point, you malnourished genius," said John. He strode into the kitchen and began shuffling about in search of the last renegade stash of tea bags.

There. That was why. With John's back to him, the cut of the suit accentuated exactly what was keeping Sherlock on edge. The hem flared out when John ransacked the higher cupboards, but the place where the jacket's circumference was smallest, at the waist, remained untouched. The slacks were less form-fitting than jeans, which made it even more torturous when an outline of muscle showed through. Would John look at him like this, if their positions were reversed? Did he feel the same hunger when it was Sherlock's frame encased in the rich material?

"Ah, here it is," John said, mostly to himself. He retrieved the dejected box from the shelf and fiddled with the cardboard lid. Sherlock dropped his jacket over the back of the chair and joined him by the counter. He didn't mean to be silent as death when he approached, it just sort of happened.

"You don't have to sneak up on me to watch," John said absently. "It's not exactly a lost art, you know."

"Still talking about tea?" Sherlock asked over John's shoulder.

John turned his head fractionally. "What else would we be talking about?"

"With you moving about in that devastating attire," Sherlock inflected the words to be clear that it was devastating in a good way, "an argument could be made for your seduction technique."

John allowed himself the luxury of a grin. "I'm not sure I follow." He leaned on the counter to face Sherlock. "Walk me through how you came to that conclusion."

"I was right, then?" Sherlock asked, enjoying very much where this conversation was going. His hand snuck around to the other side of John and gripped the counter's edge, trapping John in a half-granite, half-Sherlock circle.

"Not completely," said John.

Sherlock frowned, doubts popping up in his head like unwanted mushrooms.

"Any... affects you're experiencing are unintentional, so I wouldn't call it technique," John said, his volume on a steady decline along with Sherlock's will to maintain the space between them. "I would, however," John continued, "be open to reaping the benefits."

John was merciless. He had Sherlock's attention trapped on him, forcing him to anticipate every movement from the shift of his pupils down to the next time he wet his lips. How could he make simple facial expression so fascinating?

"I want," Sherlock allowed the words to roll off his tongue, "to cover you in me." He delighted in the shudder his words evoked in John. Perhaps the playing field was even.

"That can be arranged, since you being like this," John returned, reaching out to tug at Sherlock's jumper, "has made me the most conflicted I have ever been in my life."

"How so?" Sherlock asked, allowing himself to be pulled closer, his hands still positioned firmly on the counter to either side of John's hips.

"I want to revel in your dressing like a mortal, yet still managing to be attractive as fuck," John explained, his chin tipped upward and his eyes half-lidded. Sherlock could feel his breath hot on his face. "At the same time, I desperately want to see you in nothing at all."

"We'll skip the tea, then?" Sherlock smiled around the words.

John nodded and lifted his arms to clasp his hands together behind Sherlock's neck. "I don't think we'll need it; I've found something else to keep us up tonight."

The strain was too great to resist any longer. Sherlock ducked his head to connect their mouths, shy lips quickly gaping to breathy, open kisses. Sherlock's mind stalled midway to the thought of 'if every day was _this_-'.

John pulled him closer with a tug to his curls, hands indecently tangled in them with no plans of letting go. An appreciative moan escaped him when Sherlock complied, moving his whole frame to press John into the counter.

Sherlock's hands remembered themselves and abandoned their duty of pinning John, instead freeing him from his jacket. John understood immediately and soon his shirt was also strewn on top of the forgotten box of tea. Sherlock was next, the contact of their upper bodies momentarily broken to lift the woolen barrier above his head and toss it aside.

His own fingers scrambled at the buttons of his undershirt until John brushed them away. "Let me," he breathed into Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock said nothing, his mouth was otherwise occupied. He obediently dropped his hands, resting them in the belt loops of John's slacks.

Both of their mouths were swiftly gaining battle scars. A red tinge would have surely been visible if either were concerned enough to look. John gave Sherlock's lower lip a nip and ghosted his ministrations from his jaw down the length of his neck, searching for the right spot. He found it just below Sherlock's collar bone, a touch that made him gasp anew. John allowed his teeth to smile before putting them to work making his mark visible no matter what he was wearing.

"John," Sherlock said in an exhale.

"Shh," John soothed. He trailed kisses down Sherlock's bare chest, sometimes lingering to swirl his tongue over the surface, sometimes just breathing, letting the sweat that was forming make Sherlock hyper sensitive to the patterns John was drawing on him.

Sherlock clutched at John's back, fingernails skirting along the bare skin. It took a conscious effort not to let them dig in. He needed to get John's attention, somehow communicate the ecstasy that was so easily streaming so easily between them. "John, I-"

The remainder of Sherlock's sentence was cut off with a yelp when John began palming him through his jeans. "I know," John murmured, straightening up once more. His words were delivered directly to the corner of Sherlock's mouth, the subtleness of the touch nearly driving them both mad. "You're so hard for me right now, aren't you?"

Sherlock whimpered in time with the movements of John's hand at his crotch.

"Denim," John breathed. "Feels nice. Bet sheets will feel nicer, though."

"No," Sherlock answered, taking him by surprise. "Right... here."

John's smile could be felt more than seen. Sherlock noted the differences in kissing a smile compared to John's other expressions. He decided he liked them all, and he wouldn't mind confirming this theory over and over again.

Trousers and pants were now around their ankles, belts undone but still through the loops. John's breath caught when their erections rubbed together, the sensation overwhelming him. Sherlock pressed forward, deepening the kiss further by letting his tongue roam behind John's teeth. His hands ran the length of Sherlock's sides as he grinding their hips together.

Breathing became too ragged a task to continue the kiss. For a few moments, they reveled in the friction between them; noses brushing and air hot against their faces.

"I want to come inside you," Sherlock stated.

John nodded, eyes still closed. "I'll ride you until you see white."

"There's no lube," Sherlock frowned.

"You're wet enough," said John. He ran his fingers down the length of Sherlock's cock, coating himself with precum. Sherlock watched through half-lidded eyes, quickly widening to amazement when John reached between them and began preparing himself. Faint gasps became moans as he added more fingers. His face contorted with pain and pleasure, fragments of Sherlock's name panting from his lips. It was the most dazzling thing Sherlock had ever seen, something he'd never known he'd wanted.

Their height difference was a slight problem. It was solved by pivoting John to the adjacent wall of the kitchen and lifting him to correct height with his back to the fridge. Legs circled around Sherlock, holding him in place so John could sink onto his cock.

"John," Sherlock gasped. His lover made an incoherent sound as a reply. They kissed until John was adjusted, Sherlock having to tip his chin up for either to have access in the new position.

"Are you ready?" Sherlock asked. John answered a simple yes and they were moving. It was uncomfortable at first with minimal lube, but before long Sherlock was sliding in and out with ease.

John half-whispered a trail of sweet nothings cloaked in obscenities. "Yes, more, yes," he murmured. "Fuck, right there. You know just how to unravel me. You insane genius. Fuck-"

Sherlock had both hands braced on the cool surface in front of him. One of John's was steadying himself on Sherlock's shoulder, the other alternating between stroking his member and gripping Sherlock's back. His voice was growing louder and his cock was leaking more and more.

His tone dropped suddenly. "I can feel you."

"I'd hope so," said Sherlock, brows creased together in concentration.

"Not just that. Your heart beat. I can feel it."

Sherlock's pace faltered. John was too far gone to mind. One hand had slid down to Sherlock's chest, absorbing the erratic rhythm.

"You're-" Sherlock struggled for words. "Gorgeous. I love seeing you like this. God, John!"

"Fuck, Sherlock, I'm-" John arched his back and came warm between them. Sherlock was close behind, moving with John's tremors and filling him deep inside. They slowed together, all grins and sloppy kisses.

Sherlock pulled out carefully and lowered John to stand on his feet again. He pulled a dish towel from the counter and cleaned them both off. It was discarded near their clothes to be dealt with later. For now, it was late and there were more important maters, like whose bed was closer or if they should crash on the sofa instead.


End file.
